


==>Dirk:  Weather the Storm

by classicConundrum



Category: Homestuck
Genre: chocobo-strider, one...two...
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-29
Updated: 2013-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-09 14:44:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/775391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/classicConundrum/pseuds/classicConundrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Your name is Dirk Strider, and you’d think you would be used to this weather bullshit by now."</p><p>In which Dirk sits through a massive thunderstorm, battles some inner demons, does some thinking, gets pestered by AR, and is antagonized by the Condesce.</p>
            </blockquote>





	==>Dirk:  Weather the Storm

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [One... Two...](https://archiveofourown.org/works/757784) by [thecolorofstars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecolorofstars/pseuds/thecolorofstars). 



> Hey guys! So I've actually never written fanfiction before? But I got crazy-inspired by this http://chocobo-strider.tumblr.com/post/47260751195/tt-oh-shi-ar-initiating-lock-down-hang-on-to post by Chocobo-Strider, and was further motivated by the above "Inspired by" fic to write one of my own! So I hope you all enjoy; any feedback is much appreciated. I'll be posting a second chapter as soon as I can get it written. ^^
> 
> For reference: Chocobo-Strider's "Log #626" post, found here http://chocobo-strider.tumblr.com/post/43096290549/tt-log-626-tt-she-sent-a-man-a-human-male-to , is also referred to.

Your name is Dirk Strider, and you’d think you would be used to this weather bullshit by now. But no; instead, you’re seriously on edge. It’s impossibly dark outside, an oppressive cloak of nothingness pressing in on all sides. That is, of course, except for the sounds. The roaring. The howling. The crashing and booming. The constant roll of thunder punctuated with ear-splitting cracks of it. Curtains of rain, lashed sideways by brutal wind, slam into your house at what has to be at most a thirty degree angle to the ground. If you let your mind wander, the cacophony brings up images and sounds of the horrorterrors, and your brain projects these onto the deep shadows in your room and mingles the audio-memories with the furious natural soundtrack.

You try not to let your mind wander.

You feel the waves of the infinite sea crash against the stilts of your house as the storm itself pummels your house proper; the two forces together make everything rattle, shake and sway at varying levels. Your edginess has a lot to do with this fact. Every several (rapid) heartbeats, lightning forks across the endless sky. You both relish and dread those moments; they sometimes last for minutes, bolt after bolt of electricity sizzling through the air. In those moments, the flashes illuminate your room, turning your surroundings to a photograph with maximum contrast: only brightest white and darkest black. In those moments, the shadows sharpen to jagged edges and rounded lumps of blackness. On the one hand, the lightning provides far more illumination than the glow your computer monitors, augmented only by the single lamp you’d turned on after your fleet of backup generators stepped in when the power went out. On the other, those pure black shadows, hurled against blank whiteness like ichor on angels’ wings, are almost scarier than the creeping gradient gloom that graces your quarters otherwise and are you seriously sitting here waxing poetic about _shadows_. With a soft groan, you rub your forehead. Yes. Yes you are waxing poetic about shadows. You blame this black hole of a storm.

Your brain switches gears: _black hole…void…Roxy_. Your heart squeezes. Damn it.

You wish to heaven and hell and anything and everything in between that this storm had something to do with Ro-Lal, and nothing and no one else. If that were the case, you could breathe easily, heart pumping from the prospect of adventure—of _company_ —rather than…fear.

Okay. You admit it. You’re afraid. Behind all of your iron-clad cool and stone-cold irony, your years of training and running drills and strifing and preparing, you, Dirk Strider, are terrified. Because this storm’s only connection to Roxy is its resemblance to her aspect, and you have a sinking feeling in your gut that that’s exactly how _she_ wants it. Not Lalonde; _her_.

You swallow, pushing your kaminas into your hair and rubbing at your eyes. Between the stress, muscle tension, staring at your monitors, and dealing with the lightning flares, you’re getting something of a headache. You would love to turn on more lights, at least, so your eyes wouldn’t freak the fuck out every twenty seconds, but unfortunately the vast majority of your generator power is going towards keeping your sensors, cameras, monitors, and security systems up and running.

AR: Ahem.  


Oh. And your auto responder.

You drop your shades back in place and glare, squinting, at your main screen. You hate it when he does that.

AR: What's the glare for? Don't like that I think like you do?  


You grit your teeth. On top of everything else, he’s in one of his moods. That’s just fabulous, because you sure aren’t in a state of mind that’s willing to put up with his bullshit right now.

AR: Well fine then.  


You wait. He never just leaves it at something like that. Sure enough, a few moments later:

AR: You should probably do your video log tonight.  
AR: You know.  


Pause.

AR: Just in case something...happens.  


You hate to admit it, but you know he’s right. You haven’t done your log yet today, and you can just imagine Roxy’s reaction of tipsy disappointment followed by enthusiastic persuasion. The videos, of course, had been her idea. It was your fault she’d come to that conclusion, but it was still her idea. You’ve always thought they’re pretty awkward. Just you talking to yourself, arguing with AR and dealing with all the baggage you carry, trying not to let too much of it show on screen. Trying to keep your Strider cool. Usually failing at least in part.

With some of your logs, you talk as if you’re sending Roxy an email. Sometimes you talk as if to English. Sometimes as if to Jane. Sometimes to the heroes that are supposed to come in and save you all. Sometimes to your bro, a guy you long ago accepted was never coming home. Sometimes, even, to the god you stopped believing in a long time ago. But you do the logs anyway, to make Roxy happy, and maybe because, deep down, a part of you wants to feel like you’ll leave something behind. Like you, and Roxy, and your story, have some shot of being remembered long after all of this is finally over.

You pluck out a couple of keystrokes to direct a bit more power to your webcam and main computer. Although there is a system that naturally directs the power usage according to prespecified commands, as well as quickly responding to unexpected spikes in usage to prevent a crash or overload, you try to control changes in distribution manually and in advance—just to be on the safe side.

AR: What, do you not trust me to direct your electricity in a satisfactory manner?  


You resist an eye roll as you finish keying the commands. “If you want something done right,” you mutter, voice rough from disuse. You probably haven’t spoken in several hours.

AR: But we're the same person.  


Your jaw clenches, muscles tightening slightly. You focus on watching the light on your webcam blink to life as the viewport comes up on your screen. You don’t grace his comment with a reply.

The sight of yourself on-screen is sobering as always. Your face is cast into shadow, illuminated only by the glow from your main screen, the muted light from your secondary monitors, the goldish cast from the aforementioned lamp—and the flashes of lightning. Your kaminas hide the dark shadows under your bloodshot eyes, but not the tense lines starting to form permanently at the center of your brow. Your hair isn’t as artful as you used to ensure it was; to your eyes, the spikes are much more haphazard than carefully formed. The lines of your jaw and cheekbones look sharp in the low light. You rub at the crease in your brow, clear your throat, straighten the collar of your white button-up—open over a black tank top—and hit record.

“Dirk Strider. Log number…” You count back briefly. “637.” Lightning streaks through the sky, thunder crashing down around you as your whole house shakes on its stilts. You swallow. See, this is what you meant by awkward; you never really know what to say, and usually lose some part of your cool. You push on.

“Aside from a somewhat steady stream of love notes for yours truly, no contact with the Batterwitch has been made since—” The words die in your throat, muscles tensing up and eyes widening as red splashes across your vision.

 _Flashes of silver… His screams… Your shaking hands painted crimson… The high, broken whine of a laugh that slips out of your throat before you break down into a full-blown hysterical fit… The adrenaline singing through your system… The rush of the strife, of something_ ALIVE _… The hot, metallic taste of his blood as you run your tongue along the side of your blade..._ Your _screams, ripping out of your throat amidst your hyperventilating as the weight of what you’ve done threatens to crush you—_

AR: Dirk.  


A shudder steals down your spine. You gasp as the images dissipate, retreating further back in your brain to torment you from the sidelines. You glance down at your hands; they’ve come in front of your chest, the fingers curved like claws, just as you remember them being, except they’re clean this time. You force them to relax, massaging your palms as you shift your stare to your keyboard. The next thunder-lightning clap makes you jump noticeably, pushing you back to full awareness as you lock away the images and emotions. You can’t afford to keep losing your cool like this. You have to keep your shit together. That was eleven days ago. It’s over now. Deep breath.

You don’t talk about Log #626.

With a final steadying breath, you look up and off to the side, staring out the window. Your stomach twists, and you swallow again. Squeezing your eyes shut, you ride out the next few beats of shaking as your body burns off adrenaline and the storm and sea continue their war with your house.

Well, this is certainly going to be a long night.

You suddenly become very aware of your webcam, and glance at the screen out of the corner of your eye. Christ, do you look spooked. No, not spooked. Whatever means “tense and skittish and waging an internal war with yourself,” you are that word. It is you.

AR: ...You were saying?  


You cough, straightening your shades and turning toward the camera again.  You force yourself to slouch a bit, loosely crossing your arms across your chest.  “So.”

Yeah, good job, Dirk.  You’re the picture of cool.  No one will ever notice the little episode of shit-flipping you just had.  Your voice is still rough, and almost wavers.  Definitely not sugoi.  You grit your teeth, realizing some blessed Orange Crush will probably do you some major good.  You flashstep to grab some out of the mini fridge along the adjacent wall, returning to your chair and breaking the seal on the bottle.  Half of its contents are gone within seven seconds.

That’s better.

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and spin the cap back in place as the storm howls and your house sways.  “So,” you say again, as if you didn’t just have some sort of PTSD flashback.  Your voice is just as low as it was before, but markedly clearer.  “This storm has been going on for several hours now.  The house is hanging in there; all the lightning rods are doing their thing, and nothing’s caught on fire yet.”  You rap lightly on the wood of your desk.  Never be too sure.  “Roxy’s been doing some research in addition to keeping track of the carapace colony, and—”  Oops.  There are spoilers in that line of conversation; classified info that Bitchfins can’t be allowed to get her tentacles on.  You grind your teeth slightly and open the folder of screenshots of the Batterwitch’s aforementioned “love notes.”  Clearing your throat yet again, you scroll to the first in a themed series of messages.  

“Anyway.”  Your voice is somewhat returning to what you think is normal at this point.  “I haven’t exactly been keeping you guys up-to-date on Pinkie’s latest fan mail.”  You stare grimly at the first message, heart pounding despite yourself.  “They aren’t exactly reassuring, which is why Roxy, AR and I have been on high alert recently.”  Thunder and lightning rip through the sky once more.  Deep breath.  “Like I said earlier, this storm has been going on for awhile.  I have the feeling that she’ll send me another little—”  You dig your fingers into the flesh of your forearm as the images threaten to flood you again, pushing them back and focusing on forcing out the rest of your sentence.  “—test...before this storm is over.”  The bite of your nails in your own skin keeps most of the images from your mind.  

God damn her for getting to you like this.  This is what she wants—to screw with your mind until you either can’t win a strife or just give yourself up.  It’s psychological torture, and the fact that you are helpless to predict or stop her assaults, even as you recognize her motives, makes it that much worse.

...Wait a second.  Scratch the _fuck_ out of that.

Striders are a lot of things.  Helpless isn’t one of them.

You release your arm, knowing there is now a series of small, dash-like markings that pepper the underside of your forearm like a spattering of shaving nicks.  They’ll fade to red soon enough.  If they’re the only marks you sustain from this evening, it will be a miracle.

“The first message,” you say, going back to your original thread of “conversation,” “was sent about nine days ago:

‘ON-E... TWO... condy is comin for you’.”  You take a swig of Crush, staring at the fizzy liquid swirling in the bottle for a few beats.  “Two days later, after I’d finished Log #628, she sent the second one:

‘T)(R-E-E... FOUR... cant barracuda the door’.  We upped our security after that.”  Another house-rattling round of thunder and lightning. Another spike in your heart rate that you mostly succeed in keeping off your face.  Another swig of soda.  You steel yourself for the next one, jaw tight.  

“Two days after that one, I got her third message:

‘FIV-E... SIX... gonna krill the prince’.”  You swallow.  “For those of you just tuning in, ‘the prince’ would be me—Dirk Strider, Prince of Heart, Derse dreamer, and wrecker of shit.  My fellow Dersite-by-night and co-revolutionary, Roxy—a Rogue of Void—and I are the last two humans on Earth, as far as we know.”  You usually reiterate some part of yours and Roxy’s—and Earth’s—story in each log.  Assuming someone does find these logs and watches them somewhere down the line, you want to be as sure as possible that they would know at least part of the truth.  So you restate, figuring that every second of video won’t survive to be seen by this hypothetical person, and trying to maximize the information they will receive.  

After nearly finishing the bottle of Orange Crush, you look at the most recent of the Condesce’s notes.

“The last one was sent three days ago:

‘S-EV-EN... -EIGHT... its too late...’.”  You pause.  “Roxy and I have been on high alert since then, especially since the Batterwitch just broke from her pattern of antagonizing me other day by not sending me a fifth message yesterday.  ...We’re pretty sure it means she’s planning another attack,” you add, mouth set in a grim line.  “We’ve been—”

Suddenly, your Pesterchum client chimes to life and you jump noticeably with a curse on your lips.  You peer at the chat box.  “If it isn’t the Empress herself,” you mutter, heart pounding.

\--)(ER IMPERIOUS CONDESCENSION [)(IC] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT] at 23:23-- 

Your heart rate double-times despite yourself as adrenaline leaks into your blood.  With another notification sound, her message for today appears on your screen in her garish fuchsia font:

)(IC: NIN-E... T-EN... we found your location again  


The colour drains from your face, your breaths speeding as adrenaline floods your veins.

_No.  No no no no nononononoNONO—_

You turn shakily to the window, watching metal plates start to slide over it as all of your scanners and security systems start sounding alarms on every monitor.  

“Oh shi—”

AR: Initiating lock down. Hang on to your plush posterior rumps.  


It’s too dark; you can’t see jack shit aside from your monitor with your shades on, not without your eyes taking too long to adjust.  You yank off your shades, looking wildly back at your main screen, breathing heavily.  

And then everything plunges into blackness. Your alarms cut short, the generators whirring down in seconds.  The storm rages around you, shaking your house constantly.

She cut your backup power.  She fucking cut your backup power.

You’re completely on your own.

**Author's Note:**

> It took me FOREVER to figure out the Pesterlog formatting even with a tutorial, but I FINALLY figured out what I was doing wrong! :D Anyway. There will be one or two more chapters, as I said earlier. Thanks for reading, and again, any feedback is much appreciated!~ <3


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